it's not so much a social force
it's not out to coerce
it's an embrace
and in the end
that's what it's all about
it's a focus on people
it's a focal point on community
a common unity of those entwined
common folk connected and over-lapped
those over-wrapped by common loves
securely bound by common ties
occupying common ground
filling common space
with a wrap-around embrace
that lasts a tight hold longer
that ignores odd body odour
an embrace that lasts
a whole lot together
-  It's what we have
in common

The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.

I passed a small boy named Solomon Woods
deep in thought with a book
He licked a finger, turned a page
too engrossed to give me a look

I met a young lad named Solomon Woods
humming a gentle tune
He smiled and waved, shook my hand
and wished me a good afternoon

I danced with a friend named Solomon Woods
while he sang me one of his songs
What he lacked in skill he offset with zeal
and insisted I sang along

I sat with a man named Solomon Woods
glad of his still, gentle manner
His reliable smile and kind wise words
drowned out the usual clamour

I walked with a gent named Solomon Woods
glad of his confident stride
I knew for sure he faced the world
trusting God as his strength and guide

If you meet a man named Solomon Woods
he'll certainly stop for a while
If you have the time, he'll sing you a song
and leave you with a smile

It's advent:
Angels invite you to
Adventures in worship in your
Annual observation in
Anticipation of the divine,
Awaiting, acclaiming the King.

The red coats are coming,
The red coats are coming
(but don't let them distract you).

Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
both ready for M&S dinner.

TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.

Toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.

The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, he can't relax,
his whining is remorseless.

Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.

Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.

Gran will talk of Christmas past
when everyone was home
'Cept in Gulf War 1 when Uncle John
went away, ....

Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.

Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster tesco trolley.

For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.

Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.

Some do remember Jesus
from half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

For there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.

He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
waiting for those who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Whatever your experience of Christmas
you can come just as you are,
His love is unconditional
He'll accept you warts and all.

So come on!
It’s a season to celebrate!
To dance, to sing and to shout!
Your Saviour invites you to join Him,
so when you sing this Christmas, make it count.

I'll be completely honest but not completely true 
I'll be true to my heart but not always true to you

some of my words will reflect much of what I feel
while you'll find that other lines are more contrived to conceal

you see a poet can use their words to bear their deepest feeling
but look again and you may see something deeper redder bleeding

read again between the lines of the fresher tender cuts
and you'll brush a slower finger over old wounds long untouched 

you may disturb my untold stories seeping through the pages
and find a heart much like yours where an older passion rages

And when you give
Give like the widow

And when you give
Give til you giggle

And when you give
Give til you've pasted a smile
On every angel within a mile

And when you give
Keep the others guessing
Keep it between you and heaven
Cos you know that's better than
A here and now blessing

When you give
Give like the widow
Keep it on the down-low
However you live
Just give

I believe in one church.
I believe in an inter-racial and unbiased church of many nations.
I believe in one church of many traditions.
I believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

I believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
I believe in God-given racial difference.
I believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
I believe in Christ’s one church that reflects our maker's love of difference.

I do not believe in uniformity.

I believe in the Christ’s common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
I believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called by Christ to serve one God together, saved by His one sacrifice once and for all time.
I believe in the promise of one resurrected church drawn from all nations, from every generation to meet her bridegroom, Jesus Christ.
I believe in one eternal wedding feast at a table prepared by God which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.
I believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so all his people can come and dwell together.

I believe in God's Kingdom come.

Can you lend me a pound of your strength
maybe give me a slice of your chi.
I could do with a dose of your vim
and a dab of your vibrant esprit.

So give me whatever you're having,
let me follow your daily routine.
So long as you allow strong coffee
within your wholesome regime.

And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.

And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.

And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans

And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.

Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.

I've been ceaselessly sweating since June
And without fail every day around noon
My arm pits are sopping
My ****** are sodden
I feel about ready to swoon

It’s been glorious weather since June
I’m not sure if you’d think it too soon
But top up the icebox
For Pimm’s on the rocks
And celebrate all afternoon

Not everyone flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
you launch and take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a flyer.

Not every line flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall,
your thoughts take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a poet.

Not every prayer flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
your prayer takes flight.

Your spirit resonates with His
and you see His face.
And when you get to your 'Amen',
you see that you've got 
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a pray-er.

He didn’t realise just how easy it was to slip
how you can lose track
lose count and how simply
a habit can become addictive

Once you get the taste for the hit
you find yourself reaching for it
and before you know it, you’ve slipped
into a dependency -
lucky this time you’re only a *****
for Lemsip

The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.

We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.

We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.

Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.

We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.

We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.

Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.

I miss my mother most
when I'm in her frenetic company.
Such an angry fragile woman
in the shadow of the mum
she used to be.
Lost and alone, wanting a way home,
one woman against the world
with no old friends
only fresh new foes.

She can identify every shifting lie
sitting scared with no escape
from a hundred shifty eyes.
Stalkers criticise every mistake
watching her practice looping moves
cornering her as if to prove
that we're all conspiring
each trying to rob her
when the screaming truth here
is that her fleeting thoughts
have already gone where
we can never walk
not even in our tears.

Ezra James isn't the first
and certainly won't be the last
to go to sleep to the wonderful sound
of family having a laugh

Ezra James isn't alone
and will never have it be said
that he resents having to share
a bath before going to bed

Ezra James isn't afraid
of darkness after lights out
he knows for sure his brothers are there
of that he's never in doubt

Ezra James is safe and sound
he's certain of where he belongs -
loved by brothers, loved by God
in the heart of family Sibuns

This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.

It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.

No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.

Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.

Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.

Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.

Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late

mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.

Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.

The Purple People come in many sizes, from small to extra-large – some are quiet and smiley, while others are louder and chatty.  What they have in common, apart from the obvious distinctive pigment, is a welcoming demeanour that makes you feel that you have perhaps met them before or that you would like to meet them again.
I first met a Purple Person as I climbed the steps, looking for reassurance that I wasn’t late and that I wouldn’t stand out too much in my nervous newness.  I’m not sure what it was about their purpleness, but I felt one step closer to acceptance as I walked into the warm.
I saw the matching purple banners and smiled at the attention to detail and the attention given to me which, while practiced, was far from forced and held a genuine purpleness.
I met other Purple People at intervals, each with the purple family likeness of a smile, even though their heritage varied in shade.  The further I walked, the more I relaxed and found that some of the Purple People weren’t wearing the signature purple tee shirts, but it was clear they came from the same palette because their welcome carried the same purple weight and the same authentic purpleness.
This shouldn’t have been surprising, as I soon discovered that they each bore the same purple family likeness of the Purple King who welcomes everyone.

And when you stand
Ready to raise your hands
In prayer to heaven
Consider your heart and ask -
Do you have any hardfeelings
Anyone who you need to be forgiving
Any ill feeling that needs divine healing?
Cos if there is
Then you know that needs dealing
Before you can get to your kneeling
And your Father can truely hear your appealing.
And don't think it's worth trying concealing
No, simply deal with it by giving some forgiving
And then you can engage with some true conversing
With your loving Father listening in heaven.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 
sacrificially.

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home

make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more

drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off your regret

this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
you're welcome to stay

And when you serve,
Start with the feet

And when you serve,
Get down low
With a towel and a water bowl

And when you serve,
Find your honour not over
But under
Not higher
But lower
Not first
But last.

So when you serve,
Don't wait your turn
But push your way
Right to the back.
Where you'll find
Nothing to prove
Nothing to hide
And nothing to loose
But your pride.

Yes, you heard,
When you serve
Observe His example:
Undo a sandal
And start - with - the - feet.

You left.
What's up?
Did the WhatsApp offend?
Did we fail to delight?
Or is it just that you're too busy tonight?
We were chatting
Exchanging
Goofing
Emojing
But all of a sudden
It was clear you were leaving.
(Sad-face-crying)
- What'sUp?

Uncle Christmas was mucking out happily mucking in and wondering what might have been had his twin not been sneakier and the first to emerge to claim the 'Father' moniker. 

Uncle found to his surprise he was quite content to be the deputy and not have the pressure at the top of the Christmas hierarchy. Rather he was happier working with the reindeer, being grubbier, a little smellier, leaving his brother to bear the fur lined mantle that was heavier.

However,
at each and every Christmas dinner when the family all got together to enjoy the post-advent breather, Uncle would still insist with his Christmas pudding grin that compared to his older twin he was far harder working,
a little better looking 
and definitely 
relatively 
slim.

Graciously he turned to me
By grace I saw his face
Graciously he spoke my name
By grace I heard his voice

Graciously he spread his arms
By grace I ran to him
Graciously he took me on
By grace I took his name

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

Graciously he holds me close
By grace I hold on tight
Graciously he lifts my head
By grace I lift my voice

Graciously he walks with me
By grace I keep in step
Graciously he strengthens me
By grace I run unchecked

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT

[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]

We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.

Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.

The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.

The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.

The pray-ers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH. 

The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt!

But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.

This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.

Waiting
will always be for me the most effective
(albeit the most frustrating)
of all the means of time travel.
You won't find me in those new fangled machines.
(You don't know when you'll end up.)
Just leave me be.
I'll wait now and see you later.

And when you fast
Sate your hunger
With more of the Father

And when you fast
Weld it as a weapon
And prepare for battle
For his coming kingdom

And when you fast
Fast with intent
Ignore your stomachs dissent
And listen to reflect
And listen to expect
More than you had dreamt

And when you fast
Take your fill
Of all that he has in store
For yours and you

And whenever you fast
However you fast
Don't be downcast
Fast with a laugh

(spot the Carol)

These three kings of orient are  
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,  
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly  
to lay them before the King.

Meanwhile three ships come sailing in  
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.  

Later,
in Royal David’s city,  
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming,  apparently.  
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;  
no wonder the baby’s awake.

All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;  
the king-of-angels  baby who out-shines any wondrous star.  
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;  
born to give us second birth:  
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,  
come to redeem us all.

‘Come – receive – your - king.’

Merry Christmas.

I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.

I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.

Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.

With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.

I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.

Peace broke out
with a rash of shepherds
Peace broke in
while most were asleep
Peace broke out
with a choir of angels
Peace broke in
with the bleat of sheep

Peace broke out
in a backyard stable
Peace broke in
and beggared belief
Peace broke out
in the stink of a manger
Peace broke in
with a cry of release

Peace broke out
to a child breast feeding
Peace broke in
to a mothers relief
Peace broke out
in the hearts of believers
Peace broke in
to the middle east

Peace breaks out
to those who believe him
Peace breaks in
to the hearts of the meek
Peace breaks out
here in Ealing
Jesus breaks in
as the Prince of true Peace

Every Jamaican is a superstar.
It's there in the carry
in the step
in the stand.
It's there in the belief
that anything
that anyone
that anywhere
can swagger
can strut
can take the room
and make the world stop
sit up
take note
and smile.

Kindness is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest

‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence

Kindness is not like that –

Kindness pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption

Kindness defies convention

Kindness carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Kindness perseveres all the love-long day

Kindness doesn’t delay

Kindness is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts

Kindness confronts

Courage is her currency, boldness her language,
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms

Kindness transforms

Kindness weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Kindness pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms

Kindness is not 'nice'  
Kindness isn’t in this for the likes
Kindness bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Kindness never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight

Kindness is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This Kindness is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble,
End-Game-level
monumental

Kindness is not 'nice'.

Kindness is loving awe-ful.

Remember to think better,
think further,
think deeper
and with vigour.
Pepper your remember
with colour,
with light,
with friends who delight.
Boost your remember
with story,
with histories,
with cramped group selfies.
And remember your remembers
whenever,
wherever
you drift off centre.
And there you'll discover
your defenders,
your never surrenders
against all contenders.
Then you'll remember
your forevers.
Remember -
it's your best self defense.

Don't be quick
to stop and search.
Do slow and speak.
Do stop at the curb.
Do sit.
Do commit to shape
a future city nation
where more space is given
to a wider conversation
with a newer translation
that's truer in comparison
than any black and blue
blunt force confrontation.
Stop.

When you walk
Walk through the green
On deep paths
Walk purposefully
In the footsteps
Of pilgrims past

When you walk
Walk each new step
Thoughtfully
Placing your footsteps
Joyfully
With eyes on the holy

And there you'll find
Not only the pleasure
Not just the delight
Not solely the feast
But you will find yourself
Released
Your soul
Your spirit
Sustained
Strengthened
Singing
There you'll discover
Your true guide for your path
Your great high priest.

I dwell in possibility.
- Emily Dickinson

I dwell in the possibilities birthed by the daily Immanuel
I dwell in the possibilities whispered by the wonderful Counsellor
I dwell in the possibilities wrought by the almightiest God
I dwell in the possibilities perpetuated by the everlasting Father
I dwell in the possibilities secured by the Prince of all peace makers
And I dwell with Him where all things have possibilities

Step up to the mic and strike first with a smile of one liners, with observations or tales that beguile them.
For a smile will disable them while your lines slide in behind them, almost whispering, selecting the sharp-soft phrases that will best penetrate those guarded places. Looking with innocence into their faces, turning minds stage by stages, persuading with insights, with stories of real life, with familiar tales of familiar strife. Then when you follow through and strike with the punch line they have no defence and have no time to decline the good sense found in this food for thought, laughing to a sudden realised stop, looking again at their lives, with a furtive smile of dawning delight at the shed light on shared lives found in your soft amplified lines.
- Do it right when you step up to the mic and you just might change lives.

I look into her face, curiously more familiar, more frequent now on her departure. And particularly more prominent in profile.  
I look into her face and see the easy smile that comes with age and with the assurance of knowing herself and her place in the bigger scheme of things, particularly in the scheme of relatively earthly royalty and the ultimately heavenly King.
I look into her face and recall it in prayer at her husband's funeral, and imagine it now at rest, in darkness and in joy, in a brighter light.
I look into her face, on my pound coin, in the corner of my letter, on the street bill board, on the front of the paper, on every channel, an image etched in my mind's eye, a loud echo of a lifetime of consistency and service.  
I look and then in a prayer thank her God and my God for gifting us this servant queen, who lived well and only fell once she had done enough to help ensure others' lives were better for her being there.
And I pray for our king, that his long apprentiship in her firm serves him well and serves us well as we walk on together, into the unknown, in thanks for the service of leaders.

This is what I have observed.
This I have seen to be true -
You are not responsible
for their unhappiness,
nor for their disappointment.
These are their's.
These are from older seeds.

This is the greatest lesson.

The next is like it.
You cannot control
whether they are happy
whether they are content
with the answer.

So what can you do,
but what you know to be right,
what is said to be fair?
Do not test this
by their response.

This too is wisdom.
This too is a sadness.

The Vegan King
Looked across the table
At his son,
Wondering where he had gone
So wrong
And what would become
Of his kingdom
Once he had passed on
His mantle
To a vegetarian.

ordinary is arbitrary
different is normal
fitting in means invisible
so avoid the conformal

distinct gets you noticed
so who wants to be equal
I'd rather be original
than anybody's sequel

you are of more value
when socially unacceptable
blending in is deadly
out of step is pref'rable

so when stuck in a crowd
decide what's more valuable
will you run with the herd
or dance to the eternal

Holly and Ivy
Walked in the woods
Discussing who was the best
Holly was hoping her rosey complexion
Would maybe outshine all the rest.

But Ivy thought Holly was surely forgetting
The shock of her prickly demeanour
She was convinced for sure
The king would adore
All that was so special about her.

Now Ivy was bit of a hugger
You might say a lot of a clinger
But she was convinced
Her warming embrace
Would win over the king no matter.

And when the time came
For the winter queen crowning
The king of the woods was clear
He chose as his queen the lady he fell for
And it's Holly who now wears his ring.

When we prefer the narrow gate
And tire of busy highways
We see the Kingdom come

When the master is the servant
And kneels to wash our feet
We see the Kingdom come

When the straggler is given preference
And the first steps to the back
We see the Kingdom come

When we serve the poor, the hungry
And take the stranger in
We see the Kingdom come.

When children are given pride of place
And followed as an example
We see the Kingdom come

When brother and sister are reconciled
While our offering is left to wait
We see the Kingdom come

When the temples are cleared of commerce
And prayer takes it rightful place
We see the Kingdom come

When the Sabbath serves the worshipper
Not the worshipper the Sabbath
We see the Kingdom come

When fragrant extravagance is applauded
And noses put out if joint
We see the Kingdom come

When the Creator's light is lifted up
And the Son is no longer hidden
We see the Kingdom come

Kindness is not nice.

Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.

Kindness isn't like that -

Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humankindness its passport to lands yet to be explored, to vast red territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.

Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

The prince and I are not friends,
though he seems a nice enough guy
and I respect him and I value the role he plays.

However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
knew him better
and fed him snacks.

As a boy
the prince would slip into the palace kitchen
between meals.
Sometimes he would persuade
his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister
and he would make them laugh.

I know this because of the prince's note.

The prince sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.

A cheeky boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and showing kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
now remembered and valued by family
and also by royalty.

What do you think of that?

Yesterday was a bruiser
Today’s real contrary
Tomorrow’s undecided
But I’m remaining wary

He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.

In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.

He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.

And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.